Found a broken lawn chair on my walk. Sat comfortably. Score! Hid the chair behind trees and bushes. Will use again. For once the garbage people throw away in the woods was a good thing. Heh.


Went out the next day and was chased (actually I was off road and they didn't see me...) by a family of four-wheelers. I try to restrain my resentment. (The mother was in the last vehicle, covered in dust, heh.)


The more I write, the more I realize how much I don't know.


What the hell. Is everything effort? Can't anything be effortless?


"Takeover" feels real and authentic to me. Probably the first time I've pulled that off--not going into "fictional" feel. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but for this book I'm trying to keep it real all the way through. Every chapter is a challenge and so far I think I've pulled it off. I doubt I could have written this book until now. I don't think I could have even come close in the first few years. It's an unusual format--first person, multiple characters, epistolary style and I think it works. I like the jumping around but coming back together with an overall feeling and theme. 


Writing is both easier than you'd think and much, much harder. I'm facile, I can write something decent. Writing something good is exponentially harder.


My Australian publisher's last Facebook post of the day is my first, and their first post is my last--and vice verse. 


Yea, apes! Strange to be rooting for the demise of humanity.


Not commenting on politics has saved me no end of wear and tear.


I wish there was a Netflix for classic or even ordinary older films. There probably is.


Dropping by Big Fun (the bookstore that replaced Linda's store) every week, and picking up classic SF from my youth. Andre Norton's Witchworld, Harry Harrison's Deathworld, Jack Vance's anything world. Loved that stuff. Filling my library, the older the edition the better.


Why don't I like Twitter? Apparently, mass market distributors judge an author's worth by how much Twitter activity they have. WTF? So authors really have to be social media present as well as being writers, which is the new reality. (I remember when I realized that the pretty singers were also incredibly talented, which meant...logically...that you not only had to be incredibly talented but pretty.)


My publishers are all ambitious. I've seen one pretty much crash and burn, a second who has struggled, and a third who is in a very ambitious phase. I want to tell them to be careful, to slow down, but I know from experience that a business person in the throes of success is almost impossible to talk down.


Our house in Bend is finally on the market. Got lucky and rented a U-Haul the night before we needed it, loaded up what was in the garage. (Read in paper next day that most U-Hauls are rented through to Sept.) We went a little high on price, maybe, but intend to stick to it. My thinking is, when we looked for our house 13 years ago, it was head and shoulders above the other houses in our price range. What will be, will be.


Whatever anyone can imagine they can do in a movie. So many classic SF books would make great movies, instead of the next damn Transformers or whatever.


Linda is happy as a clam. It's easy to take the air-conditioning for granted. I write at the kitchen table instead of in my office.  I've kept up with the lawn and weeds so far, fresh start. Quiet neighborhood, more blue collar than our last, lots of boats and cars and trailers, but quiet. Vacant lots around us probably still have a few years to fill in.


Have increased my effort on new books and toys and card games. Cameron was already doing a good job on comics and graphic novels and games, but I'd dropped the ball a little on my part. Can already see an increase in interest. Sometimes you just have to spend money to make money.


Listening to "Luxury Liner" by Emmylou Harris in the car, one of my favorite albums, and realizing that the pace and tone of country western just seems to "fit" better in Redmond than in Bend, and wondered if there is something to that overall. That the rural pace of life is attuned to a different rhythm in music.